


Ghost Of A Good Guy

by sinseeker (inperpetualreverie)



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mental Illness, No Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 05:28:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3798460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inperpetualreverie/pseuds/sinseeker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cotard's Syndrome is appropriately nicknamed "Walking Corpse Syndrome" because someone afflicted with it really seriously and truly believes that they are dead, they do not exist.<br/>This is a story about Jensen Ackles and his struggle with believing he's a ghost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This is a multiple chapter fic. Please be patient with me. I will update as frequently as possible. Feedback is love. Let me know if you think this story is worth finishing. Thank you for reading.

I suppose that It was about six years ago when I first noticed the problem. Well, maybe a bit longer. I mean, I am quite sure that I probably noticed it well before that, but I never realized that what was happening to me was not actually supposed to be happening. I never knew that the problem in question was actually a problem, is the thing.

You know what I mean?

Of course you don’t know what I mean. No one ever knows what I mean, and that’s a problem all on it’s own, isn’t it? Let me see if I can get it out in a way that you might be able to understand. In a way that doesn’t sound so crazy, so impossible.

You’re a person, right? And being a person, I should think that you’d be rather familiar with the games people play, yes? Okay, good, you’re with me so far. Do you know, then, when you see people play “peek-a-boo” with babies? Like, when the person instigating the game covers their face with their hands, and for a second, the baby looks as if the person in front of them has actually disappeared somehow? You know how they get that completely astonished look on their face right before it transitions into one of fear? Yep, you’ve got it, that’s the one!

Well, that’s what it’s like for me.

That’s my life, living forever in a moment between shock and fear, and I don’t know how to get out. It’s like my life has become one big, long game of “peek-a-boo.” Only, everything’s kind of in reverse, you see. It’s like I have become the baby, but the disconcerting thing is that it’s not everyone else who disappears when the metaphorical hands begin to cover faces. It’s me. I disappear.

Sounds completely insane, right? Well, try living it. Try waking up to an empty house one morning because everyone’s gone to work or school or wherever it is that they go when they go there, and suddenly you’re there, but you’re not. You’re still you, but you’re made up of all the wrong stuff and your skin doesn’t really fit right and you just feel wrong all over. You’re cold and sluggish now and you can’t really focus on anything at all. It’s too quiet in the house so you turn the TV on for company, only it’s not right anymore either. The noise fills the empty spaces in all the wrong ways and the background noise is no longer soothing; it has become grating. And everything makes you so uncomfortable. You can’t _fucking get comfortable_ and now you’re getting angry, which is – well, anger inducing, because you cannot possibly understand how you can be overwhelmed by so many feelings and sensations in a place where you have started to believe that you’re not really supposed to be able to feel anything at all.

It doesn’t make sense. You don’t know what’s real anymore because no one’s around to show you. It’s like you’re suddenly hovering on a line between existing and not. You have actually become Schrodinger’s goddamn cat and you’re sure that you’re about to lose it. And that’s it.

That’s what life is like for me. My name is Jensen Ackles, and the thing is, I think I might be a ghost. And this is just the beginning of my story.

I'm thirty years old now. I don't know if I am supposed to keep counting the years anymore, but I have been. Perhaps it keeps me a little more sane.  Well, as sane as any ghost/person/whatever can be, I suppose. Which probably isn’t very.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the short chapters. feedback is love.

 I’m in Jefferson Park again. I come here every morning just to be outside and watch. That’s all I do really. Watch.

It’s a beautiful day out, and the sun’s doing that deceptive thing where it shines like it does, making everything look warm and Springy, but when you step outside you’re hit in the face with cold, biting wind. Sometimes I can picture the sun laughing at its own joke because it has fooled everyone, and for some silly reason, that makes me smile. There are a lot of days like this around here, cold but sun-shiny. People complain about it, but never me. These kinds of days are my favorite.

Dimples is here too.

Dimples isn’t his real name, but It’s not like I can ask him what it is, and he’s got these ridiculous, well, _dimples,_ obviously, so that’s the name I’ve given him.  He’s playing with Sadie – his dog – and I only know her name because she’ll trot over here sometimes like she thinks she can see me, and he’ll call for her to return.

He’s been here every Monday and Wednesday for the past three months. He’s not the reason I come here, but I can’t deny that on the mornings I know I’ll see him, I actually feel a little warmer, if that sort of thing is even possible.

I don’t know where he played with her before, or if he even lived around here before, but I’m glad he’s here now, anyway. He’s nice to watch. He laughs a lot, especially when Sadie does something funny.

And now he’s smiling at me. Well, not at me, but in my direction. Maybe he likes this bench. It’s a nice bench after all – made of oak and everything. I smile back anyway because I simply can’t help it. It’s just a shame he doesn’t see it. Doesn’t see me. It makes me sad, knowing that he can’t see me, knowing that _no one_ sees me. A part of me almost thinks I’d wish I could die if I weren’t dead already. And now I’m laughing because it’s absurd for a dead person to wish for death.

 Oh, and now he’s laughing too, and I’ve been so absorbed in my own thoughts that I’ve missed the reason for that stupid, adorable, giggle.

Fuck my quasi-existence. And this bench.


End file.
